


A Very Special Earpisode

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Canon Disabled Character, Friends to Lovers, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Oo-mox, Post-Episode: s07e10 It's Only a Paper Moon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 10:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: Nog learns Very Important Lessons about mature relationships, emotional vulnerability, and proper lobe maintenance.Star Trek is full of allegories. This one is about douching.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rekelen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekelen/gifts).



There’s a theory—one that hasn’t been substantiated enough to satisfy most Ferengi—that all humanoid lifeforms spring from a common ancestor. Nog doesn’t entirely buy it, but this theory would explain why so many humanoid species—despite all their cultural and physical differences—fall back on kissing as the default sign of romantic affection. Maybe they all have similar nerve endings in their lips or wiring in their brains that make kissing feel good and invigorating and exciting and comforting all at once.

Even if that’s the case, Nog doubts sharing a common ancestor with Jake makes this feel so familiar, almost nostalgic, like they’ve been doing this for years when they’ve only been at it for a few seconds.

What evolutionary explanation could there be for their lips meeting for the very first time but with all of the precision, the fit, the rightness of a self-sealing stembolt?

Neither of them are exactly new to kissing (there were a surprising number of libertarians at the Academy), but any first kiss is bound to be at least somewhat awkward.

Unless this isn’t a first kiss but just another person scrambling to refit Nog with his new leg back into their life.

Something in the movement of Nog’s lips must betray his self-doubt, because Jake pulls away just enough to look him in the eye.

“Is something wrong?” Jake asks.

“You don’t have to do this just because you feel sorry for me,” Nog says quietly.

“I don’t feel sorry for you.” Jake cups Nog’s cheeks. “I missed you. A lot. And maybe more than a friend would miss a friend. Even if they are best friends.”

“Jake…” Nog’s cheeks flush beneath his touch. “I was still on the station.”

“I know. But you weren’t with me, you were with Vic. And that’s fine, that’s what you needed to do. But I’m used to us being together. Even when we’re apart. And not having that made me realize… I want more.” Jake leans back. “But only if you do too.”

Nog grabs Jake’s biceps, stringy but firm. “I’m a Ferengi. I always want more.”

“But from me?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re my guy, right?”

Jake smiles, ducking his head. “I guess I am.”

And their lips, hands, bodies slot together like a prefabricated Jeffries tube junction.

-

“I don’t know,” Jake says, his fingers tickling the curves of Nog’s head. “It’s like I can’t help but feel distant sometimes. It’s all so important to my dad. You know, Earth, New Orleans, Louisiana, North America. But I’ve only ever been there to visit. Almost everything I know about New Orleans comes from my dad, and that makes it important to me, but it’s like I’m supposed to identify with a place that’s never really been my home. Does that make sense?”

Nog scoots closer in their booth, practically sitting on Jake’s lap. “Yes, completely. I mean, when I went to the Academy, everyone there expected me to be this perfect Ferengi. They kept asking me questions about Ferenginar and saying stuff like, ‘Oh, this must be very different than the Ferengi Alliance.’ But I haven’t lived in Alliance territory since—”

“Since you were five,” Jake finishes with a chuckle.

“Exactly. And my classmates still came to me, thinking I’m some kind of expert on Ferengi culture.”

“See, that’s why I feel so weird about representing Earth at the festival.”

“Have you talked to your dad about this?” Nog asks.

Jake shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings.” Jake flattens his palm against the back of Nog’s head. “You’re like the only person I can talk to about this.”

Nog leans forward, touching the bridge of his nose to the tip of Jake’s. They breathe together for a moment before Nog pulls back, resting his head against Jake’s hand.

“Maybe you could talk to your grandfather?” Nog suggests.

Jake brightens. “I guess. I mean, if anyone knows what it means to be from Earth, it’s Grandpa Sisko. He’s only left the planet twice in sixty-six years.”

Nog taps the PADD lying on the table, a bill long-forgotten, glancing at the time, and does some quick mental math. “If you comm now, you can catch him before dinner rush.”

“You sure?” Jake asks.

“Yeah. I’ll settle the tab.”

Jake pulls him in for a quick but rather involved kiss before hopping out of the booth, an ungainly jumble of long limbs and growing muscle. Nog enjoys the view, hopelessly endeared at the sight, until it’s blocked off by a vast landscape of gold-trimmed fleur de lis growing out of a garish orange background.

Quark coughs, drawing Nog’s gaze up his shirt and to his face. “Your bill,” Quark says sharply.

Nog jots his signature on the PADD, wincing only slightly at the damage to his monthly latinum stipend. “Here.”

Inspecting the authorization, Quark says, “You and Jake seem awfully cozy.”

Nog straightens his posture, puffing up under his ensign’s uniform. “You have a problem with that?”

Nephew or not, Quark reacts as he has Nog’s entire life when confronted by someone in uniform. He takes a half step back, holding his hands out in front of his chest (but not under his chin). “No, no. Of course not.” And then as always the bravado kicks back in. “I mean, if I had a problem, would I have let you two sit here an hour after finishing your last drinks?”

Nog tilts his head slightly to the left, mimicking an intimidating but de-escalating gesture he’s seen Commander Worf do a thousand times. “I guess not.”

“In fact…” Quark steps forward, nudging Nog farther into the booth with his knees. “I think it’s a rather shrewd business move on your part.” Quark plops down next to Nog. “If you were any other Ferengi, I’d say you’re wasting your time on a Hew-mon with no real fiscal ambition or family wealth. After all, the whole point of signing on with another male is to double your profit. But with you? Well, you’ve chosen another path. You’ve thrown off profit in seek of prestige. And on this station, I can’t think of a single person—emphasis on single—more prestigious than Jake Sisko, son of the Emissary and station commander. A hit with the Bajorans and the Federation. Being seen on his arm could mean big things for your little Starfleet career.”

Nog scratches his chin. “I hadn’t really thought of it like that.”

And he hadn’t. Up until now, Nog had thought of this new thing with Jake much like their friendship: intimate, emotionally fulfilling, supportive but without any of the social or economic climbing that characterizes most Ferengi bonds. The idea that he could have all that and net some quantifiable social and professional capital at the same time…

Nog suppresses the urge to rub his lobes. (He is still in uniform after all.)

“But,” Quark says, his finger tracing absentminded shapes on the table, “that all depends on you maintaining Jake’s interest.”

Nog scoffs. “Me and Jake have been friends for years. If he was ever going to get bored with me, he would’ve done it by now.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?” Quark smiles a sickly, disingenuous smile. “You and Jake have an unbreakable bond built on years of friendship. I’m sure that…” He trails off. “Unless…”

Nog senses the sales pitch deep in his ear canal but Starfleet-borne curiosity tempts him into biting. “Unless what?”

“Nothing. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Quark moves to get up, but Nog grabs his wrist.

“Uncle,” Nog says sternly.

“Fine. Fine.” Quark settles back into the booth. “I didn’t mean to bring this up, and I’m sure you don’t want to talk about this kind of thing with old Uncle Quark, but…” A long-suffering sigh. “Being in a romantic relationship is very different from being buddies. There’s a certain physical aspect that no matter how much you love each other plays a big role in whether you stay together. Especially since you’re both men. I mean, if Jake was a female, you wouldn’t have to worry about his end of things. But since he’s a man and a Hew-mon man at that, well, you’ve got quite an uphill battle in front of you.”

“Uncle,” Nog says sharply, “I know how to please Jake. Starfleet Academy taught me a lot about Hew-mon anatomy.” As mentioned earlier, there is a surprisingly active young libertarians club on-campus.

“Then you know how sensitive the lesser senses are in Hew-mons,” Quark says matter-of-factly.

“Of course.” This is the first time Nog has heard anything about it.

“I mean, it only makes sense. Hew-mons have such inferior hearing that their other senses—what we Ferengi so chauvinistically refer to as ‘the lesser senses’—have grown more acute to compensate. True, their vision is nothing to comm home about, but they can feel textures, taste flavors, and smell odors that Ferengi would never even notice.”

Nog vows to shower at least twice a day now. If not more.

“Speaking as your uncle, as someone who’s older and wiser...” Quark leans in. “...I just want you to know that it’s completely normal to feel a little self-conscious about the way you smell…” His eyes roll up towards his browline. “...up there.”

“It is?” Nog asks although the thought has never occurred to him.

Quark nods. “It’s something Ferengi men have been dealing with for years. Discreetly, of course.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” Quark says. “Back when we thought Hew-mons could be viable trade partners (after a little intimidation, of course), an enterprising young Ferengi could make a neat stack of latinum doing consumer research on this new market. The Nagus himself commissioned bars-worth of studies. And you know what he found out? Hew-mons are obsessed with aural hygiene. It’s deeply ingrained in them. In fact, before they abandoned capitalism, Hew-mons had an entire industry based around cleaning their ear canals. They made these little disposable swabs to remove earwax. A Hew-mon could go through hundreds of them in a single year. When I think of how much profit was made on coo-tips alone…” 

Quark sighs. “Of course, now Hew-mons use their sonic showers. A total waste if you ask me.” He frowns. “I just wish sonic showers were enough to deal with…” He glances up at his brow.

“They’re not?” Nog asks, panic rising in his voice. “All the books on lobe maintenance say—”

“The books on lobe maintenance,” Quark cuts in, “are written by Ferengi doctors with Ferengi wives. Their lobes could be rotting off and their females wouldn’t say a thing. But for a Ferengi with a Hew-mon male…” Quark tuts. “A sonic shower isn’t gonna cut it.”

A hazy post-coital memory resurfaces: Jake walking toward the bathroom to clean up _while sniffing his fingers_.

“So what do I do?” Nog asks. 

“Well…” Quark wraps an arm around his nephew’s shoulders. “There are certain products that can help, some scented oils that mask and minimize odor. Not too expensive either. Although they do require a pressurized applicator. But one of those will last you years…”

Nog may not have lived within the Ferengi Alliance since he was five, but he’s enough of a Ferengi to know when someone’s giving him the hard sell. He maintains enough of that Ferengi sixth sense to feel when the Great River is about to sweep him away.

And, in any case, he grew up on Deep Space Nine; he can recognize one of his uncle’s cons from a lightyear away.

But even knowing all this, Nog craves the comfort one can only find in consumerism. For just a little latinum, Nog could leave the bar with some product capable of wiping away all of his fears and insecurities. Even those fears and insecurities he’s developed within the past ten minutes.

“How much?” Nog asks.

-

Nog wants to enjoy this. After all, his lobes have never looked, smelled, or (if Jake’s moaning is any indication) tasted better. He feels extremely sexy. Which, according to the endless magazine articles Jake’s written, is key to enjoying intimacy.

And yet for the past few weeks, despite a newfound confidence, Nog hasn’t really…

Maybe it’s overexposure. They say too much oo-mox can do that to a guy. And Nog’s certainly never had this much oo-mox before. Maybe he just needs to build up a tolerance and eventually he won’t feel every line in Jake’s fingerprints as they scrape across his lobes.

Until then he’ll just have to suffer.

-

“Not right now, okay?” Nog says, ducking under Jake’s hands and into their quarters.

On any other day, oo-mox would be one hell of a “welcome home from work, honey,” but today the only thing he wants on his lobes is a cold compress. His lobes were so swollen this morning that he didn’t even bother with the irrigator. Skipping a day usually helps with the sensitivity but not today. As the day wears on, the pain gnaws at him more and more.

Once Jake falls asleep, that damned thing is going in the recycler.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nothing. I’m just not in the mood.” That’s an understatement.

Jake’s shoulders slump. “Fine.”

“What?” Nog asks, sitting down on the couch.

“Nothing.” Jake shakes his head. “It’s just… you don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.” Nog removes his boots. “I’m just not in the mood.”

Jake sighs. “Look, I know I’m not… I know I’m not pleasing you. And I want to work on that before it becomes a bigger issue.”

“We can work on it. Just not tonight.”

“Fine.” Jake sits in his easy chair, resting his pointy elbows on his equally pointy knees. “Can we at least talk about it then?”

Not wanting to think about his swollen lobes, much less talk about them, Nog sneers. “Jake, I’ve had a really long day and the last thing I want to do is—”

“Talk to me?” Jake asks.

“Yes,” Nog sighs. “I mean, no. I just don’t want to… Do we really have to do this now? Can’t we just eat dinner?” Not that Nog has much of an appetite at the moment.

“Eat dinner?” Jake scoffs. “Is that the kind of relationship you want to have?”

“One where we eat?” Nog asks. “Yes, I do.”

“That’s not what I…” Jake groans. “I don’t want to have to ignore my feelings just so we can go through the motions of living together.”

“I’m not asking you to!”

“Well, that’s what it feels like.”

Nog rolls his eyes; “that’s what it feels like” has served as Jake’s trump card in every argument they’ve had since Keiko’s classroom.

“You know what, Jake?” Nog asks. There’s a bitter tone flavoring his voice like stomach acid—useful but vile. “Maybe I _do_ want just one night where I can relax after a long day at work and not have to deal with your feelings.”

Jake recoils, rubbing his jaw like Nog slugged him. “I didn’t realize talking to me was such a burden.”

It’s probably the persistent throbbing in his lobes, but Nog refuses to offer the comfort he normally would. “Maybe you would have if you ever considered that not everyone grew up like you. We weren’t all raised by fathers who’d come home from their measly eight hour shifts to play catch and talk through our emotions. So, yes, maybe I’m a little out of practice.”

Jake fires back. “You seemed to get a lot of practice with Vic.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jake leans forward in his seat. “You were fine playing house with Vic, listening to all of his problems, talking to him about your feelings—”

“That was different!” Nog snaps.

“You mean it was easier,” Jake accuses.

“Yes, because… because…” Nog falters, stumbling over the words he wants to say: _It was easier because I wasn’t afraid of losing him. It was easier because a hologram can’t walk out on you the way a human—the way a mother—can. It was easier because Vic was just my friend and even that wasn’t really real because nothing is as real as what you and I have._

Jake interrupts Nog’s stammering: “You know what? Keep it to yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

And with that Jake gets up and walks out of their quarters. Barefoot.

After a moment’s debate, Nog’s care for Jake wins out over his pride and he shoots to his feet. He makes two steps toward the door before a sudden wave of dizziness sends him spinning, his hands clutching at the air to stay upright.

Finding some measure of equilibrium (and a handhold on Jake’s chair), Nog realizes what an utter mess he’s gotten himself in—and not just with Jake.

He needs to get to the infirmary—and soon—even if he has to crawl.

-

Dr. Bashir removes the otoscope with care and sniffs the air around Nog’s head. (The smell couldn’t have come back that quickly, could it?) Grimacing, Bashir growls, “Quark.”

Setting aside the otoscope, Bashir’s face returns to its typical professional veneer. “Nog, have you been using any new, er, products lately?”

Considering that mild lobe irrigation has been used by pre-adolescent Ferengi as a sly means of self-oo-mox for centuries, Nog hoped he could get through this visit without actually explaining how he got into this position. With this in mind, Nog weighed his treatment options carefully in the waiting room. Girani is no doubt more familiar with Ferengi medical conditions, having served as the physician to all non-Cardassians during the Occupation. But that experience also means she’s been treating Nog for every cold and oop-oop since he was five. If he couldn’t stop the root of his condition from being discovered, Nog would much rather prefer Bashir to be doing the discovering.

So focused on preventing potential awkwardness, Nog forgot to take into account one simple fact: When overwhelmed with professional curiosity (or even concern), Julian Bashir is almost entirely lacking in tact.

Dr. Girani would treat Nog silently amid a fog of awkwardness but Bashir would make him talk about it.

And if the events of the past half hour show anything, it’s that Nog does not want to talk about it.

“Any, er…” Julian goes on. “Aural cosmetics?”

“I… may have… invested… in some new…” Nog struggles through his vocabulary for the most apt but innocuous phrasing. “...bathroom fixtures?”

“I see.” Bashir consults a PADD. “Would one of the fixtures be a ‘high-powered lobe irrigation kit complete with a variety of patented oils and guaranteed to remove any odors or wax that may offend the delicate sensibilities of Bajoran and Hew-mon oo-mox partners?’”

“How did you know?” Nog asks.

Bashir lowers his PADD. “You’re the third Ferengi to come in this week.”

“Uncle,” Nog growls.

“Quite right. It seems Quark has somehow managed to get his hands on a large quantity of veterinary grade aural irrigators and is now offloading them on every Ferengi in the sector.”

“Veterinary grade?” Nog hisses.

Bashir nods. “Apparently, several breeds of Cardassian riding hounds have scaled ear canals. If Mr. Garak is to be believed, this can cause deafening blockages during molting.”

“My uncle sold me a product for Cardassian dogs?” Nog asks slowly, barely hanging on to his already frayed temper.

“Well, they’re not quite dogs. ‘Riding hound’ is a bit of a mistranslation. True, they bonds to Cardassians much like domesticated canines on Earth, but they’re actually reptilian.”

Nog stares at him blankly.

“In any case.” Julian coughs. “Yes, that irrigator is not intended for Ferengi use. And neither are the oils Quark sold you.”

“But they’re patented for aural use,” Nog protests.

“You can’t always trust a patent.”

Bashir may as well have broke it to a Klingon that dining on the heart of one’s enemy only gave them a fifty-fifty shot at getting into Sto-Vo-Kor.

He continues on undeterred. “The oils Quark sold you contain compounds known to irritate the inner ear. Which explains the sudden dizziness you experienced this evening.”

“And the pain?” Nog brushes his fingertips along his swollen lobes.

“Frequent, vigorous washing strips away vital ear wax, leaving the outer lobes vulnerable to infection.” Julian grins slightly. “On Earth, we call it ‘swimmer’s ear.’”

Nog slumps, crossing his arms over his chest. “I guess I should know this stuff already.”

“In an ideal world, yes. But, if memory serves, the Academy’s mandatory health module doesn’t include lobe maintenance.”

He isn’t wrong. The particularities of Ferengi biology only came up once in Nog’s studies. His first semester security course detailed how playing high frequency recordings could incapacitate any Ferengi in earshot. His professor was kind enough to skip over the usual in-class demonstration.

“Fortunately,” Bashir continues, “one of the few Ferengi astrophysicists—may he rest in peace, no pun intended—dabbled in medicine. He wrote a highly readable guide to Ferengi health and wellbeing. I’ll send it to you. It will give you something to do until next week.”

“Next week?” Nog balks.

“Five days medical rest.”

“Five days?”

“At the very least. I’ll re-check your lobes at the beginning of next week, and we’ll go from there. But in the meantime… no oo-mox.”

“Believe me,” Nog says, thinking of Jake, “that’s not going to be a problem.”

-

Having poured what feels like a liter of antibiotics into his lobes, Nog lies on the sofa, letting his tissue absorb the drops. Every few minutes, he hears a distinct glugging sound as the medicine sinks deeper into his left ear canal. It may be the analgesic hypo Dr. Bashir gave him earlier playing with his senses, but Nog could swear that drops are running straight through his brain and out the other side. He puts a towel down just in case.

With that much weight pressing on his eardrum, Nog sees rather than hears the door swish open and Jake come in.

“Hey,” Jake says.

Nog fights the impulse to leap to his feet and meet Jake at an angle somewhat approaching eye-to-eye. Fearing another dizzy spill (and a deluge of antibiotics spilling from his lobes), Nog remains on the couch. He responds with a simple, “Hey.”

Still barefoot, Jake pads over to his easy chair, sitting down with a sigh. “Look, about earlier…”

“Jake, listen…” Nog trails off, at a loss of how to make this right.

“I know you probably still don’t feel like talking,” Jake says. “But I just wanted you to know that I don’t feel good about the way I acted tonight.”

“Neither do I,” Nog admits.

Jake smiles slightly. “And I am trying to do better. I even went and talked to Vic.”

“What? Why?” Nog sputters.

Jake shrugs. “I figured if anyone could teach me how to be a better boyfriend for you, it would be Vic.”

“Vic was _never_ my boyfriend. We’re just friends.”

“That’s not what Vic said.” Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees, an irrepressible grin spread across his face. “He sees you as a mother figure. You know, because you gave him life.”

A chill courses through Nog’s body that has nothing to do with his fever.

“Vic said that?” he asks.

“After a few dry martinis.”

“I’m a moogie.” Nog sinks deeper into the couch cushions. “And I didn’t even get paid for it.”

How could someone with a personal life so out of control have a child? Nog can barely manage raising himself much less a middle-aged, Hew-mon hologram. Once Nog makes his next promotion, he is going to write a very serious complaint to Starfleet Academy because their reproductive health module is clearly of no use to a modern, 24th century Ferengi.

With a sigh, Nog realizes the one bright spot to this unexpected turn of events: “At least, you won’t have a reason to be jealous of Vic anymore.”

Jake’s smile fades. “That’s the thing: I never had a reason to be jealous of you and Vic. Even if you’d been together like that, that doesn’t justify me being jealous and saying the things I did. And, if I’m honest, it wasn’t really the idea that you and Vic were _together_ together that upset me.”

“Then what did?” Nog asks.

Jake stares down at his hands. “You and I have been best friends for a long time. In all those years, neither of us have had another serious relationship—romantic or platonic. Knowing that you’re close to someone else… It’s not something I’m used to. And I guess when I’m feeling, I don’t know, insecure about our relationship my mind just jumps to… Maybe I’m not your best friend anymore.”

“Jake,” Nog says, “you’ll always be my best friend. Nothing could change that.”

Jake looks up. “But things have changed. We used to spend all day doing nothing, talking for hours, and now… I feel like you’re just putting up with me.”

“If that’s because of tonight—”

Jake cuts him off. “It’s not just about tonight. It’s been going on for weeks. You don’t enjoy being in bed with me, you hardly ever initiate things anymore. I mean, you spend more time in the bathroom with that irrigator than you do with me.”

Despite laying on his side, Nog’s stomach somehow overpowers gravity and drops to his feet. 

“You know about the irrigator?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Jake nods manically. “I found it when I was looking for my grandpa’s old shaving kit.”

Nog then realizes one of the fundamental inequalities of their relationship: Jake can hide something by putting it on the top shelf, but Nog stashing something deep under the sink doesn’t necessarily preclude Jake from finding it.

“And it’s fine,” Jake continues. “It’s not like I can control your body or anything. I just wish if you’re not being fulfilled that you’d talk to me about it instead of taking care of yourself. I mean, if that’s what it takes, fine, just, you know, maybe do it while I’m in the room sometimes?”

Nog lays a tentative hand on this throbbing lobes. “I’m not using the irrigator for oo-mox. I’m using it so when we are together it’s better. For you.”

Jake’s brow furrows as he tries to unpack that statement. “How does that even—Is it like a stamina thing? Because that’s really not an issue you have. At all.”

Well, there’s one aspect of this romance where Nog isn’t a complete and total failure. He considers taking this note and saying, “Oh, well, I guess I’ll throw the irrigator out,” and they can move on with their lives, but Jake deserves better than that.

“No,” Nog says. “It’s about the smell.”

“What smell?” Jake asks.

“You know, the smell.” Nog glares up at his lobes.

“No, I don’t.”

Nog sighs. “You don’t have to spare my feelings. I know that Hew-mons don’t like the way lobes smell.”

“Nog,” Jake says slowly, “your lobes don’t smell bad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They just smell like skin. Well, I mean, lately, they’ve kinda smelled like a scented candle but usually I can’t really smell anything.”

“Even when, you know, there’s wax?”

“Well, yeah, that does have a smell. But it’s not a bad smell.” Jake ducks his head. “It’s not bad at all.”

“But you hate the smell of your own earwax,” Nog says. “How could you like mine?”

Jake shrugs. “We’re different species. My ears don’t… I’m not a scientist or anything, but if a human digs their finger deep enough to hit wax, the smell is probably nature’s way of telling us to stop before we puncture an eardrum. But with a Ferengi, it’s more like an invitation to go deeper. I don’t know. There’s probably, like, pheromones or something. And, besides all that, humans form emotional attachments to smells based on memory. And the memories I associate with lobewax is you making love to me. And I like that. Even if you don’t anymore.”

“So, just so we’re clear…” Nog grits his teeth, his hands gripping the couch as he feels himself teeter closer to the edge. “I spent two months latinum stipend on a veterinary grade irrigator and fraudulently patented oils, sabotaged our relationship, gave myself an inner and an outer lobe infection, all to get rid of a smell that you _like?_ ”

“Wait.” Jake holds up a hand. “You have a lobe infection?”

Pain still wearing at his nerves, Nog wants to snap, “Why did you think I was laying like this?” But what comes out is a choked sob. “It really hurts, Jake,” he whimpers, tears stinging at his eyes. “Bashir gave me some medicine, but it still really hurts.”

Jake rushes to kneel at Nog’s side. “Can I get you something?”

“No.” Nog grabs Jake’s wrist. “Just hold my hand.”

“Okay,” Jake murmurs, entwining their fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was embarrassed.”

Jake’s thumb rubs circles on Nog’s hand. “About the smell?”

“About the smell, about falling for one of my uncle’s scams, everything.” Nog sniffles. “I’m sorry for lashing out at you earlier. I didn’t mean what I said. Not any of it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

Nog looks over Jake’s shoulder, lapsing into the thousand yard stare that’s become almost second nature since AR 558. “It’s not easy for me to be vulnerable. Maybe it’s because of the war or maybe I’ve always been… I guess there wasn’t really a time that...” He breathes. “The Cardassians didn’t go after us like the Bajorans, but it still wasn’t safe. They could turn on you at any second. And no one would care what they did to you. You always had to be on guard. I guess I got used to living like that.” He looks back to Jake. “So, tonight, rather than showing weakness, I chose to hurt you.” He squeezes Jake’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Jake strokes Nog’s cheek, careful to avoid his lobes. “You don’t have to be afraid of being vulnerable with me. I would never hurt you.”

“I know,” Nog says, leaving _but you could leave me_ unspoken. There may come a day when he’s brave enough to lay himself bare like that but it’s not today. “I guess if you can learn how to be less jealous, I can learn to be more open.”

Jake smiles. “It’s funny. We’re both adults but we’re still growing up together.”

Nog wipes away his tears. “I guess some things never change.”

Jake leans in, gingerly pressing his nose against Nog’s. “I hope they never do.”

-

Nose-to-nose, Jake speaks in a punched up murmur over the din of the bar. “I spoke to my dad about it finally.”

“Hmm,” Nog hums, stroking the back of Jake’s neck.

Jake nods, the bulb of his nose bouncing against Nog’s. “He said it’s normal, and expected, and our ancestors have felt like this for generations, but I could tell he was disappointed. I think he’s scared I’m drifting away from—”

“Ahem,” Quark coughs.

Nog and Jake turn, shifting from nose-to-nose to ear-to-lobe.

Glaring, Quark asks, “What’ll it be? Wait, don’t tell me. You—” He tilts his chin at Nog. “—want your knife back.”

Jake snickers. “C’mon, Quark. That’s no way to treat a loyal customer.”

“A loyal customer?” Quark huffs. “He’s buying drinks with my latinum.”

“Hey,” Nog says, a slime-eating grin forming on his lips. “I won that settlement fair and square.”

“Fair? You think five on one is fair?” 

“It would have been ten on one if you hadn’t blackmailed half the class with—”

“Blackmail,” Quark says sharply, “is my divinely-appointed right as a Ferengi guaranteed under the articles of incorporation.”

Nog smirks. “So is the right to sue for damages.”

“You exploited a loophole in tort law, evaded mandatory arbitration, and rallied a group of co-plaintiffs to minimize personal risk.” Quark’s voice rises to a yell. “All to extort money from your own uncle, who practically raised you by the way.”

“But tell us how you really feel,” Jake murmurs softly enough for only Nog to hear which, of course, is loud enough for Quark to hear.

“I’m disgusted.” Quark wavers; his voice softens. “And also a little proud.” He jabs a finger in Nog’s direction. “But mostly disgusted.”

Jake relaxes into the booth, wrapping an arm around Nog. “You can take the boy out of the Ferengi Alliance, but you can’t take the Ferengi out of the boy.”


End file.
